Author Topic: Mountjoy Prison 27 November 1922 Poem By Jack Gannon and J Murphy of Bluebell, I  (Read 1934 times)

Offline mayhem15

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This poem was written by a relative of mine.

The following verses were composed and written in Mountjoy Prison , 27 Nov 1922,
By Jack Gannon and J Murphy of Bluebell, Inchicore Dublin.



      We are sitting in our cell
      and we're thinking of Bluelbell
      wondering if we'll see it anymore
      that spot so dear to us
      where the boys will make a fuss
      when we meet them all again at Inchicore.


      We are longing for the day
      when we shall march away
      and leave this cursed prison far behind
      for we feel that if we're her
      by the ending of this year
      it is certain we will die or lose our minds.

      When the fighting first began
      we backed an honest man
      Valera is our fearless leaders name
      he's a man of courage bold
      who can't be bought with gold
      an expert in the great guerilla game.

      We were shamefully betrayed
      and prisoners we were made
      in Mountjoys dreary prison now we lie
      but we hope we'll live to see
      Ireland Prosperous and free
      and an independent nation ee'r we die

      But although we're here to-night
      for upholding freedoms right
      in this prison which is like a little hell
      our hearts grow light and gay
      as we think about the day
      when we see the bit of heaven called Bluebell.

Composed by Jack gannon In Mountjoy Prison December 1922

      Sacred to the memory of:

      Liam Mellows, Rory O' Connor, Richard Barrett, Joe Mckelvey.
      Shot in Mountjoy Prison on the 8th December 1922.

Friday morning 8th December 1922

       The day has dawned, tho no golden glory ,
       of sunrise illumesw the sullen sky,
       as barrett, Mckelvey, Liam and Rory ,
       are led away this morn to die.

Friday Night 8th December 1922
       
       With my saddened heart i seek repose
        upon my prison bed ,
        and e'er i sleep i pray for thos,
        now lying cold and dead.


I have transcribed this from the written poem that has been passed down through the family.